


Just because I left

by simofthewind



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simofthewind/pseuds/simofthewind
Summary: "Slowly, oh so slowly the shadow draws near and settles down. He knows her. He knows it’s her since the first evening, ashen white blond hair barely hidden under the blue hood."Jaskier meets the lion cub of Cintra. It's not the first time for either of them.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 153





	Just because I left

**Author's Note:**

> To my dearvils gang who know my love and the special place The Amazing Devil and Welly boots have in my heart. Who brought me so much light, joy, laugh and love and self confidence in this past weeks: you cant know how dear you are to me.

Let say he knew her before.

Let say, she knew him before, when she was younger, this colorful strange friend roaming the continent always with new grand stories to tell, music to shout at the sky and tales of ancient cultures to share. 

Let say, after the dragon mess, he let his beard eat his jaws and his hair fall on his shoulders. There's no point trying to pretend. He's a forty years old man. And a tired one. Hurt by too many words, too much words in his head, hidden deep in his heart, carved on his soul. His hair is still a vibrant deep brown, shining black chestnut in the late afternoon. Despite the heaviness lingering in his heart and limbs he feels strangely good in this new him, older but stronger in a way. Darker. He knows life now, have for a long time really. The lute on his back and the dagger in his boot are his best friends. He knows them well. Have for a long time. And he trusts them. Tales from before that he carries with him to the futur. 

Let say, he is quieter. A bit darker at the edges. Almost invisible if he wants to. But people still like his songs, stories of long times ago, humanity oldest feelings taking voice in his music... He should not be surprised that in obscur time, people still ask for love songs, adventure, pain and comfort as long as it doesn’t come with too colorful doublets of bygone days. Sombre face in sombre ages.

Let say, he is making his way to the coast, slowly taking the time of the journey, stopping in villages with unknown name, singing his way through the continent still. Lute on his back, dagger in his boot.

Let say he hears whispered words in inn’s corners of the fall of cintra. Never trust words whispered in inns's corners. The Lioness is fierce, her lion cub safe. His fingers dance soflty on the strings.

Let say that he is making his way through a forest. It’s been days since he entered between crooked trees, surely drifting from the main path as they used to. The odd unease of a remote mountain that used to follow him had slowly fade away when his hair had began to caress the back of his neck. Now he feels at peace, as calm as the forest. As wild. 

Frosty air, lute on his back, dagger in his boot. 

The light piercing through the branches is slowly fading. It’s time to build a fire to warm his tired feet, time to settle for the night. Maybe caress the strings to hum for the evening sky. But there’s movement and a blue shadow behind the trees. Safe against his strong calf, is a sharp blade, the black leather of the handle worned and shaped by another hand than his own, a hand of bygone days. But it’s a child’s frail shadow he is almost sure of it. The blade stay hidden. The child too. From his pack he retrieves another blanket, setting it away from him but still, near the crackling fire, next to berries and dried meat. He doesnt say a word. Morning comes. The blanket is neatly folded, the berries and dried meat gone. There’s a blue shadow at the corners of his vision the following days, and each evening another set of blanket and food ,folded and gone at dawn. When he can’t see the shadow anymore, he slows his steps. He smiles. He waits until it reappears. He waits just like he waits in the morning, that the blanket is neatly fold, blue behind dark trunks, before getting up.

He is cooking the rabbit he trapped a bit sooner, the camp already prepared, fire singing, blankets set. Slowly, oh so slowly the shadow draws near and settles down. He knows her. He knows it’s her since the first evening, ashen white blond hair barely hidden under the blue hood. Blue like her grandmother, blond like her mother, ashen white like her destiny. He knows this color too well. He knew it’s her when she trash and whimper in the night and he tries to soothe her, bleeding heart, soft fingers on an elvish luth. It’s her. In front of him, on his blanket, as she fixed her too serious eyes on him. He can tell she doesn’t recognize him. It’s been years, so many years, it’s been a dragon mess, the end of life as they both knew it, hair too long, her face too thin, hearts too scarred. A trimmed but thick beard. Dark clothes, a dagger in his boot. “I’m Fiona” she says. She’s bold, she’s strong, he knows her but he doesn’t tell her. Oh, how he loves her. And he smiles when he offers “Julian”. She doesnt’t recognize him but he will keep her safe. Oh, how afraid he had been since the whispered noises in inn’s corners. 

And slowly, so very slowly there’s trust. Because she doesn’t know him but she does. He braids her hair, trying not to remember the feeling of other ashen white hair between his fingers. He sings stupid songs just to hear her still child laugh ringing in the cold air. Winter is near, Kaer Morhen still far away. He fears and feels her power through the nights but he can’t do much. He’s just a bard. Still she has a beautiful voice and he teaches her how to control her breath to make it firm and strong. And they scream from the top of their lungs at each other deep in the woods and they laugh and he cant stop, gods he can’t stop laughing, as she wildly imitate villagers and sing so loud and so young in the fire light. 

And he can’t stop worrying. 

There’s rain and thunder tearing the sky apart. He felt it coming in the last village but she refused to spent money on a raincoat, and now she’s shivering in front of the weak fire. There’s already so much of her destiny in the stubborn set of her shoulders. His clothes are too large for her but they’re warm, soft and sturdy. Fine silk is not suited for this kind of life. In the small city where he performs the next days they buy her new ones but she keeps his scarf, wrapped around her. Winter is near, and the air grows colder. And he can’t stop worrying. 

So he takes the dagger out of his boot and he teaches her what he knows, how to use it, her steady hand clads tightly around worned black leather shaped by another hand than his own, a hand of bygone days. How to escape it and fear it. How to hide it, safe in her boot. It’s not much, he’s just a bard.

So he listens once more to the whispered words in inn’s corners. He has no plan, Kaer Morhen is his only idea, winter is almost here and the air grows colder. As so many other before, tonight is a good one, good music, good food, good coins. He let her drink his ale and she smiles mischeviously at him. She knows him but she doesn’t. He knows her and he is proud. And he aches. And as sure as the night come, come again the nightmares. With his hands he cradles her ashen white blond head to his chest as he lay awake, as always, between her and the door of the small room, her frail frame close to him and trusting. Keeping her warm, keeping her safe. Dagger in her boot.

There are inns, and woods, small villages, hard ground, warm meals and the first snow flakes, light as dreams.

He can feel her drifting away. They must be close. He’s relieved and it breaks his heart. They rely too much on each other these days. She has grown up but still, she will scream, and curse, and break things. He knows it. He knows her and he loves her. And it breaks his heart but she’s strong. He braids her hair trying to remember the feeling of her ashen white blond hair between his fingers. 

And then there’s a crowded market in a muddy city. She wears her hair braided, hood on, scarf around her shoulders, warm dark clothes, sturdy boots hidding a dagger. She’s beautiful. And then he sees a chestnut mane, black saddlebags and shining swords, muscles under chestnut robe. And then he sees ashen white hair, broad shoulders, a tight waist, muscles under black leather. 

And everything stop, it’s magnificient, it’s terrible. 

And slowly like falling snow he sees destiny being fulfilled. 

He sees him turning around. 

He sees her running and crashing into his arms, hiding her head against his solid chest, powerful forearms closing around her. She’s safe now and his heart is breaking in a bilion shards scarring his soul. Oh, how he aches.

He loves her. And as he sees him lifting his face from her ashen white blond, he smiles sadly, he loves him.

And he turns around and walks away, lefting them behind. Long hair, dark thick beard, quieter, lute on his back, dagger in her boot. There are inns, and woods, small villages, hard ground, warm meals. He’s heading to the coast.

-

He felt it nagging at the back of his neck for days and suddenly she is in his arms. He doesn’t know her but he does. She wears her hair braided, hood on, scarf around her shoulders, warm dark clothes, sturdy boots. She’s beautiful. 

He doesn’t know the man he sees walking away long hair, dark thick beard, lute on his back. But he does. He knows his smile. He knows who used to braid his hair that exact way. He knows who he gave his dagger to. 

“Jaskier” he breathes.

-

He felt it nagging at the back of his neck for days and suddenly she is in his arms. He doesn’t know her but he does. She wears her hair short and the wind from the coast play with the ashen white blond strands, hood off, scarf around her shoulders, warm dark clothes, sturdy boots hidding a dagger. Her face is sharp, a deep scare on her smooth cheekbone. She’s beautiful. 

And behind her, he is here. 

“Jaskier”.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are gems treasured for the centuries to come...
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](https://simeramise.tumblr.com/)


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